


Sweetest Sacrifice

by TheAngryKimchi



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Blood Sharing, Brief Mention of Animal Sacrifice, Consensual Underage Sex, Implied Mpreg, Intersex Loki (Marvel), Loki is the Jötun equivalent of 17, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Prophecies, War, Yes again, derived from Greek mythology, heavy undertones of ritualistic sex, no animals were hurt during the writing of this fic, saving two realms through fucking, the classics feed me so good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:15:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28276689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAngryKimchi/pseuds/TheAngryKimchi
Summary: Thor has grown weary of the long, seemingly never-ending war with Jötunheim that has been raging since before he was even born, and now he has come to also be a part of it. He’s tired of the massacre and the cold and the snow, tired of the worry lines around his friends' faces, of losing people; missing the heat of home, his Queen-Mother's sweet embrace, the friends he lost to the giant beasts. He's been part of this war for so long already; was raised for it—a sword in his hand before he had the chance to even walk straight on his own.Then came the prophecy: Laufey's youngest had to die.
Relationships: Loki/Thor (Marvel)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 247
Collections: Thorki Secret Santa 2020





	Sweetest Sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kymera219](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kymera219/gifts).



> This is me starting off my vacation with a boom! 
> 
> This is also what happens when I can't stop thinking of thorki scenarios during/because of class. It started off as a thread on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/TheAngryKimchi1/status/1341473751691616259) because my emotions were Too Many™ and got completely out of my hands.
> 
> Very (very, very) loosely based on the story of Achilles and Troilus from the Iliad.
> 
> Gifted to the sweet [Kymera219](https://twitter.com/Kymera219) for Thorki Secret Santa 2020! I truly hope you like and enjoy this! Happy Holidays ♥
> 
> BEWARE: there is brief mention of animal sacrifice in here (skip the paragraph starting with “At the very end” if you don't want to read this), also a little bit of blood-sharing, virginity-taking, maybe blasphemy? you know, ritualistic sex things.
> 
> ENJOY! ♥

Thor has grown weary of the long, seemingly never-ending war with Jötunheim that has been raging since before he was even born, and now he has come to also be a part of it. He’s tired of the massacre and the cold and the snow, tired of the worry lines around his friends' faces, of losing people; missing the heat of home, his Queen-Mother's sweet embrace, the friends he lost to the giant beasts. He's been part of this war for so long already; was raised for it—a sword in his hand before he had the chance to even walk straight on his own.

Hardened, trained, mind infused with blood lust and revenge. His trainers made a beast of him, his father demanded glory. They pushed him for more— more blood, more death, more control. More. More. _More_. 

Until Thor had no more to give.

Then came the prophecy from Queen Frigga. 

A strange thing, ambiguous and open for interpretation that had coldhearted generals adopt nearly distressed expressions, looking at each other with dread as they bent over the war tables. Planning, scheming—always scheming.

There were murmurs around the camp. A tense, nervous susurrous. It reached Thor's ears like waves against the shore; whispers of failure, of more death, of Asgardian subjugation; prayers to ancient Gods for a solution, for mercy; cries for home and loved ones.

The prophecy's meaning was lost to them but its message was clear enough: Laufey's youngest had to die.

Unsurprisingly, the task was assigned to Thor. He didn't bat an eye. If it meant this war would be over, if all it took was one more kill, then he'd do it without second thought. 

He took off in the night, bundled in furs and trudging through heavy piled snow. Hiding behind gigantic dark trees until he was close enough to Útgarðar's impenetrable walls built from the dark ore local to the realm and infused with magic so powerful not even Mjiolnir could crack.

They had information back at the camp, provided by Huginn, spoken to them through Odin, information that could prove to be useful: Laufey's youngest would leave the safety of the walls once every month to attend some sort of divine ritual east of the mountains surrounding the ancient city. Thor was to ambush them, never to allow them return to the city if not lying lifeless in the snow.

Thor set camp and waited, alone and determined, for an opportunity. For a loving kiss from Lady Luck.

For three days and three nights he waited, and when the moons were high in the sky, when the Aurorae swirled in bright colours, he was relieved to see a lone, dark figure slip from an opening through the great walls.

They moved swiftly over the snow as if it was no hindrance to them, as if they glided through frozen water and Thor had to make haste before them, follow their step while staying obscured by the dark forest line. 

A predator and its prey.

However, there was something peculiar about the Jötun—if Thor could call them _that—_ for they were too short, too _delicate_ for being one of the savage beasts. Their features too ethereal, their body too dainty, too magical under the dark sky and the swirling colours illuminating their cobalt skin.

It would be so easy to break them.

Thor followed them to the mountain, contorted his way through narrow-curved rock formation until, with a last, nimble stretch the stunted Jötun came to stand in the middle of a deep, high-domed cave.

Thor watched, barely breathing in the quiet, as the Jötun flicked a hand, sending emerald flames to take place on the rock around them, revealing a carefully carved altar and an imperial statue of Ymir engraved on the far end of the cave.

Then the Jötun promptly fell on their knees. What Thor presumed to be prayers falling from indigo lips in a language so ancient not even the All-speak could translate.

For hours it lasted—the chanting, the kneeling, the flare of seiðr rising above their heads, seeping into the walls, until the Jötun's voice was hoarse, until it was hard for them to draw breath, barely whispering any more. 

And through it all Thor watched, transfixed, enchanted.

At the very end, the Jötun manifested a hare through thin air, laid the poor thing over the altar and, after soothing a light blue, gentle hand over its side to calm it down, they sliced with a dagger through its neck. Blood flowing upon the flat surface of the altar, dripping down the sides.

Their chanting came to an end not long after and, with their duty finally accomplished, they slumped over the stone, breathing hard and rugged. 

It would be so easy for Thor to kill them then. To crush Mjolnir through their skull.

It didn't feel right though. It didn't feel heroic to end the life of someone unsuspecting, weak, someone who couldn't fight for their own.

With a last, lingering look to the prone Jötun, Thor turned his head and weaved his way back out of the mountain, back to the forest and the snow and his army's camp.

...

He had failed. 

Thor had hesitated.

For the first time he had hesitated.

And his people were the ones taking the brunt of it.

His warriors kept dying, their sorcerers and their weapons were still weak against Útgarðar's magic, mere snowflakes against the dark ore.

For months Thor kept camping outside Útgarðar's walls. For months he kept following the lone figure through the dark and the snow. For months he kept watching as they acted out their ritual. And for months Thor kept hesitating.

Nights in Jötunheim lasted too long, the day's light too weak and too short to melt the snow, to bring any comfort to the Aesir.

Thor started dreaming during those harsh nights—of blue skin and long, nimble limbs drawing patterns in the air, of dark hair and bloody eyes, of chanting dark lips and melodic crooning.

The dreams twisted and turned—he dreamed of massacre, he dreamed of peace, he dreamed of those ruby-like eyes staring lifeless at him, and he dreamed of them looking at him in passionate, burning lust. He dreamed of the Jötun's long fingers digging into his throat, stealing the life from his lips, and he dreamed of them carding through his hair, caressing his flesh with a lover's touch.

In the day he'd try to invade the ancient city and in the night he would dream and through it all, once a month, Thor would hunt and he'd observe and he'd let the little Jötun live.

 _This will be the last time_ , he would lie to himself. _This is the last. Next time I'll do it. Next time I'll free Asgard from the burden of the war._

But he'd always hesitate. He'd always turn his back. The Jötun would still breathe and their heart would still beat in their chest and Thor would still dream and still regret.

Then came the day Baldr was severely wounded, a blur of green seiðr the only thing anyone was able to see through the sudden snowstorm. 

That was all Thor needed to make up his mind.

This war needed to end.

And Thor had to be the one to end it, even if it meant he'd have to run Mjolnir through an innocent creature's body.

* * *

The next time Thor knows the Jötun will go to the cave for his monthly ritual he forgoes the hunt, goes straight for the kill instead. Afraid he will cow away from the task again if he has any time to spend watching the majestic being as they moved, as they breathed.

He makes his way through the snow and the narrow crevices of the mountain hours prior to the Jötun’s arrival. Inside the great cave, he situates himself against the wall right beside the opening and waits. For hours he waits in the dark, counting down the seconds, counting down the drops of water that echo from somewhere deeper inside, trying not to think of endless blue skin littered with raised pale kinlines, of ruby eyes and a long rope of thick midnight black hair, of long limbs and agile fingers that give the illusion of birds fluttering through the dimness of the cave, of wide shoulders covered in dark fur and lithe legs trapped inside low slung leather trousers. 

He thinks instead of his people, of his friends and his brother fighting a useless war against beasts three times their height, losing their lives, missing their families. He thinks of his mother and his nieces and nephews back home, how they are being prepared to fight, when their turn comes, this soddy war. 

Thor sets his heart to right and hardens his mind and when the Jötun slips in through the meagre opening he’s ready to deliver the fatal blow.

As usual, the Jötun steps up to the altar while still drowned in the dark, clear they know this place by heart. They flick their slim hand to send orbs of seiðr to take their perch on the walls but, unlike usual, they don’t fall on their knees. Instead, they stand with their back a stiff line and their head staring straight ahead, the thick rope of their high braid falling down, between tense shoulder blades.

Thor takes a step from the rock he’s perched against, holds his breath, ready to strike, but something in the Jötun breaking their routine stays his hand over Mjolnir’s handle.

The minutes pass. The water keeps dripping from somewhere in the distance. 

_Drip-drip-drip._

Nothing breaks the silence, not even their breathing. 

Thor doesn’t blink, holds his eyes on the little Jötun. 

Riveted. 

Expectant.

Then a breath, deep and loud in the quiet stillness. The twitch of long, blue fingers. A mere whisper, barely enough to puff in the freezing atmosphere.

“What are you waiting for. Do it.”

Thor’s senses are hardwired. He’s been trained to always wait for the unexpected, to never be caught out of guard. 

Still his breath hitches quietly, his hackles rise like an animal cornered.

_Don’t speak. Shut up._

“Kill me, then.” The Jötun says, voice resolute, unafraid. “This is what you’ve been sent out to do, isn’t it?”

_Don’t speak. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up._

“Do it.”

Thor _will_ do it. 

The Jötun isn’t lying prone on the ground, they haven’t bewitched him with their canorous ancient words nor their fluid motions.

 _This time he will_. 

Thor’s fingers wrap around Mjolnir’s handle. He lifts it high, ready to strike. His muscles draw back, coil in hard, powerful cords and—

“ _DO IT, ODINSON!_ ”

Mjolnir flies through the air, her Uru head wheezing as it passes by the Jötun’s head and embeds itself on the torso of Ymir’s statue.

Crimson, ruby-red eyes glare at Thor, glistening with a sheen of wetness under the low, magicked light. The Jötun’s narrow chest heaving for breath, they are standing utterly terrified, looking so darn _young_ . So darn _innocent_.

They are still an adolescent, Thor knows. Too young to take part in the war, too delicate.

_What is he doing?!_

The kid snarls, expression twisting into something feral, and in the span of a blink, they are onto Thor, shoving him back against the rocky wall with such ferocious strength Thor would have never expected from someone so...so _frail!_

The Jötun snarls into his face, sharp teeth gleaming in the light. 

Their hands are cool around Thor’s neck, but not frostbite-cold. They squeeze enough to hinder Thor’s breathing and it works in kicking him into action. Despite their surprising strength, the kid isn’t a challenge for Thor, and with a hard, full-bodied shove the Asgardian throws them off easily. 

The yelp the Jötun makes when they are backed to the altar has a shiver running down Thor’s spine. The kid looks at him startled, eyes wide and terrified. They growl and twist under the hold Thor has of their thin wrists, trying to kick at Thor but only managing to wedge themselves more snugly between the warrior’s thick thighs. 

With his free hand Thor calls Mjolnir to himself and, surprisingly, the Jötun falls meek, lips closing in a tight line.

“Do it.” They goad again. Soft and shivery.

Thor stares at them, brow furrowed over his stormy eyes. 

He tries to find it in him. 

He tries to seek out the bloodlust, the merciless side of himself that had him falling beasts three and four times larger than him.

But the kid is pliant under his bulk, trembling, with captivating eyes wet with tears they won’t shed. 

They remind Thor of the hares they’d sacrifice to Ymir every month, afraid, twitchy but subdued.

Thor looks at Mjolnir, then at the kid and he must take too long, the stillness and quiet must be too much for the Jötun to take any more, for they bare their sharp teeth and snarl for Thor to go with it already, take their life.

“ _DO IT, DARN YOU! DO IT! WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? HOW LONG ARE GOING TO KEEP TORTURING ME?_ ” And then their voice almost breaks. “ _Darn you, Odinson! Darn you to Niflhel!_ ” 

They try to shift, to escape despite their words, their nearly perfect act of bravado. And Thor’s been too long in the battlefield, his mind has twisted itself into an ugly, disgusting thing, for he finds himself enamoured with this hissing, spitting creature, thinking of all the ways he could use to subdue them, to calm them, save them, make them _his_.

Mjolnir makes a dull thud when it falls on the ground, leaving Thor’s hand free to caress down the side of the Jötun’s face, slip down their supple neck until he’s cradling the stem in his big palm. “Shhh, shhh” he shushes them softly, his voice gentler than he’s heard it in decades. “Shhh, little one. I won’t hurt you.”

The Jötun makes a watery sound like a scoff, turns their head to the side to hide into their tightly corded biceps. 

“You’re lying, Odinson. You’re lying and you aren’t even good at it.”

“How do you know who I am?”

The Jötun glances at him from the corner of their eye, unimpressed.

“Your fame precedes you,” they say, sounding nearly baffled they have to explain themselves. “You are the only one worthy of such a weapon and she sings your name _.”_

“What do you mean?”

 _“_ She’s never quiet,” the Jötun nods towards where Mjolnir lies on the floor. “She sings your praise anywhere you go. She’s the only reason I’ve known I was being followed right from the start.”

Thor draws back a little. “You knew.”

“I’ve always known _._ Since before I stepped out of Útgarðar’s walls that first time. I’ve known you were there and I’ve known what you were meant to do.”

“If you knew, why did you leave the city?”

The Jötun tilts back their head, raising their slightly pointed chin in pride.

“Like you, I have a duty to uphold.” 

_The rituals._

Thor glances around, the crack on Ymir’s statue makes him almost wince, but then his sight lands on the carved slab that makes up the altar. 

How the Jötun lies stretched over it. 

Like the sweetest sacrifice.

“What’s your name, little one.”

The Jötun recoils, lips curling in something akin to disgust, as if they cannot believe Thor was sent to kill someone he didn’t know the name of. 

As if Thor hasn’t done worse things, atrocious things.

“My name is _Loki_ , Prince and master seiðmaðr of Jötunheim.” The boy grinds his teeth, full of ire, imperious as he gives his title.

“Tell me _Loki,_ ” Thor drawls, testing the syllables on his tongue. It tastes _appetizing._ “If you were aware of my presence all along, of my goal and the danger I dangled over your head—your charming neck—” he presses his thumb against Loki’s pharynx, feels how it bobs under his touch, “why did you allow yourself to be so… _vulnerable_ after every ritual, why didn’t you have guards protecting you when you exited the walls.”

Loki fidgets over the altar, hands twisting under Thor’s hold. 

“Why did you allow me to watch you. Endlessly. Torturously.”

Thor bends lower, bringing his face over Loki’s, enraptured when the indigo lips fall open on a stuttery breath.

“I’m an oracle, Odinson, the strongest seiðmaðr to have walked on Jötunheim’s ground in ten thousand years. I know of the prophecy, know every single possibility and every single outcome.”

“And how many are there?”

Loki turns his crimson stare on Thor, darker than ever before.

“Only three.”

Thor raises an eyebrow, expectant, anticipating.

“Pray tell, Loki.”

Thor feels the tendon in the Jötun’s wrist move beneath his palm as Loki holds up a long, black-nailed finger.

“One: you kill me, pushing my father in a series of unfortunate, careless mistakes that will cost him his sons and ultimately his realm.”

The tendon moves softly again, drawing Thor’s attention to its delicate line and up to the now two fingers.

“Second: I kill you,” —Thor scoffs at that, looking derisively down at the kid’s supple frame— “the same will happen with your father and your realm this time. Jötunheim coming victorious.”

“And the third outcome?”

Taking notice of how the boy’s cheeks tint with a pinkish hue, Thor feels his curiosity peaking. He leans down further, diminishing the distance between their bodies until he can feel Loki’s deeply moving chest brushing against his furs.

“Thirdly...” Loki’s voice comes out hoarse, little lilac tongue coming out to lick on his lips, his pulse fluttering against Thor’s thumb. “We make peace."

Peace…He didn’t think it probable. 

The message from Odin was definite _‘Laufey’s youngest must die before they see the turn of a century or else immense grief awaits Asgard and her people.’_

 _“How?_ ”

“You and I.” Thor’s brows dance on his forehead, warmth gathering to coil low in his belly as Loki squirms under him, manages to move his body in a sinful roll that brings their groins to brush against each other. “The rest will follow.”

Grabbing the Jötun’s hairless jaw hard in his palm, Thor glares at him.

“Are you playing with me, little one?” He growls, nails digging into the soft flesh.

Calmly, Loki parts his lips and bites down on the juncture of Thor’s hand, sharp teeth breaking the skin. 

And Thor watches, transfixed as Loki hollows his cheeks, drawing up blood that smears stark against his dark lips.

“Trust me, Odinson, if I were playing with you, you wouldn’t be wondering.”

In a swift move, Thor swoops down to crash their lips together in a rough, relentless kiss. Loki stretches beneath him, body arching prettily towards him, the muscles of his arms drawing tight. His mouth is pliant against Thor’s, opens to accept his demanding, invading tongue deep inside. He tastes like crisp winter air, his tongue cool when it meets Thor’s, when they twirl together. 

There’s no sign of remorse, of reservation in the way he meets Thor midway, in how he cranes his neck or chases after Thor when he draws back for breath. 

Thor is unable to accept the possibility of this not being Loki’s first kiss, of him not to be untried. He’s so small in comparison to his kin, feels so delicate inside Thor’s arms.

Thor groans, grinding his hips against the bulge in Loki’s tight-fitting pants. He bites at the tendon of Loki’s neck, cock twitching at the tiny, kittenish sound that rises from the pale blue throat.

“Do you want this, Loki?” 

Loki twists under his hands, tries to free himself again but the only thing he manages is to brush more firmly against Thor’s body. He sounds breathy when he speaks, aroused. 

“What do you think?” he snarks, letting his head thump on the hard surface of the altar.

Thor laughs breathily, unable to believe how his luck has changed in such a short time, unable to believe how lewd, how _wanton,_ this majestic creature is.

Moving his hand down Loki’s neck, Thor scratches his nails over his skin, crimson welts rising to weave themselves through his pale kin lines. Sweet, panting moans fall from his lips when Thor tweaks his dark nipples, fondles his slightly swollen breasts before continuing further down his trim waist, to where his trousers are sitting precariously low on his hips.

He hovers his palm over the impressive bulge, pressing down to a hitch of Loki’s breath until he’s keening and grinding his hips up, seeking more delicious friction. 

“ _Norns! Thor!_ ” 

The sound of his name in Loki’s deep voice is enough to shutter any lasting reservations Thor might have. 

He growls, deep and guttural through his throat, yanking at Loki’s pants until they come down to the middle of his thighs, cock finally free, dark blue like his lips, curling on the left side of his groin and weeping against his belly. Long and hard—as delicious and enticing as the rest of him.

Releasing his arms and legs, Thor yanks on the trousers until they come off the thin ankles, drag over the bare feet. He resituates himself quickly but doesn’t bend back down immediately. Taking a few moments too long instead to look at Loki as he lies over the altar, naked except for the short fur over his shoulders, hard and leaking and hazy eyed, his long braid hanging over the side. 

Loki looks like a dream. 

He looks like one of _Thor’s_ more intimate dreams.

Loki curls one long leg around Thor’s, drags the underside of his foot up Thor’s thigh.

“What are you waiting for?” he taunts again, however, this time his voice has none of the defeat it did earlier. This time it’s teasing, seductive, and with a flexible motion, Loki drags Thor closer. “ _Fuck me._ ”

At this point, Thor doesn’t need to be told twice. He makes quick work of the laces on his breeches, pushes them down just enough for his cock to sprout hard and thick and proud as he bends over Loki, sneaks his fingers between his long, smooth legs, behind his small tight balls and to the soaking lilac folds of his pussy.

Turns out the rumours regarding the Jötnar were all true. 

“ _Yes!_ ” 

Loki shudders at the first touch, throws his head back, baring his neck to Thor’s mouth who doesn’t miss a moment to suck and bite at the long column, groaning at the vibrations of Loki’s moans against his lips, littering his perfect cobalt skin with angry dark bruises.

When he presses two fingers against Loki’s clit he relishes in the way the Jötun curves forward, a long trembling sound leaving his chest. And when he pushes a finger inside, he finds him as tight and virginal as he predicted he’d be. 

If his mind wasn’t as dizzy as it is, if the need to fuck into Loki wasn’t as fervent as it is, Thor would gladly throw himself on his knees to bury his face into his sweet cunt. Would spend hours fingering and lapping at him. Until Loki were a trembling, mewling mess. But as it is, with the way his cock throbs and how Loki _begs_ so sweetly, Thor doesn’t have time to think on it more.

He’s quick and efficient with fingering Loki open. His little Jötun blooms beautifully under Thor’s ministrations, his sleek walls wet and easily accepting of Thor’s thick, rough fingers, one after the other until Thor’s got three of them smoothly gliding in and out of his weeping wet cunt.

“Yes, darling, that’s it. Beg for me, tell me what you want, offer yourself to me.” Thor groans, beard scratchy against the smooth skin of Loki’s cheek as he kisses him sweetly there before he presses a hard but short kiss on his lips.

Left hand finding its way back around Loki’s wrists, Thor holds him down to minimize his writhing.

“Want you inside me. Want you to take me. Lay claim on me— _in me!_ ” Loki gazes at him through hooded eyes, he stretches back, proffering his chest for Thor’s mouth, filth continuing falling from his lips. “Want you to fill me up, nice and good until I can’t take any more. Until I’ll be unmistakably swollen with your potent seed. No one will have any right to keep us separated then. No King. No war. No duty.”

His feet prop onto the altar, legs falling wide open in sinful invitation, ensnaring Thor good and secure as he steps closer, withdrawing his soaked fingers to replace them with the blunt head of his cock, the altar at the perfect height for him to slip easily through the smooth folds, smearing himself in the abundance of slick before pushing inside in slow, undulating motions. Until Loki is ready to accept more, until he’s buried to the hilt. Loki’s pussy gripping so snuggly, so maddeningly tight around him.

He waits for Loki to adjust, thrusting shallowly inside until the Jötun starts meeting him halfway, a low chanting of Thor’s name coming from his delectably bitten lips, not unlike the way he recited those ancient words during his rituals.

“ _Thor! Yes! Yes! More! Give me more! You feel so good! So good! Ah! Ah! Thor! Thor!_ ” 

Thor picks up his pace. The muscles of his thighs drawing tight with every thrust, pushing Loki to slide over the sculpted surface until his head is hanging over the edge.

Straightening his back, Thor looks at him. The little pool of prespend that Loki’s cock has drooled on the concavity of his belly. Takes in the way he lies open, accepting the girth of Thor’s cock as if he were made just for it. 

Thor draws back until only the head of his cock is inside, shivering at the sight of Loki’s cunt stretched around him, the little of blood he can see smearing his cock along with their mixed fluids. Proof of Thor’s claim on Loki’s body.

Lips curling in a wicked twist, Thor drives in to the hilt, marvelling at how the brutal action makes Loki keen and arch, head thrown back, eyes looking glazed at Ymir’s statue, voice rising in lingering echoes up to the high dome.

“Pray for us, little one,” he whispers hoarsely, noting how it has Loki shivering and tightening around him. “Recite your ancient prayers while I make you mine, little Jötun.”

Loki’s eyes flutter closed. A long, dry breath heaving through his lips before he starts chanting, ancient, familiar, yet strange words still to Thor’s ears. 

His Jötun’s voice hitches when Thor pulls back, breaks when he shoves in, but he keeps going until his voice is hoarse, until it’s too much to take and he starts trembling around Thor, clutching rhythmically in a way that tells the warrior he’s close.

At a long, shuddering moan, Thor drapes himself over Loki, crashes their mouths together, breaking the skin of Loki’s lips against his teeth. The bitter tang of blood blooms on his tongue and he moans, kissing him harder, rougher, until his dark mouth is sure to bruise. He sucks on Loki’s bottom lip, drawing more blood to well into their mouths, to mix in their taste.

A breeze hisses suddenly all around them, drifts over the magicked flames on the walls of the cave, sneaks beneath the furs Thor wears and whispers over Loki’s bare skin, making them both shiver in tandem.

It’s all Loki needs to finally let go and tumble over the edge, clutching around Thor in a way that pulls Thor’s own orgasm from himself. Milking him dry until he’s filled Loki up as requested. 

Loki’s skin ripples Aesir pink for the blink of an eye before returning to its usual Jötun blue, eyes flickering between vivid green and crimson red.

“ _Yesssss!_ ” he hisses, still trembling around Thor, still dripping on the altar, semen drying on his chest, a pearly white contrast against the backdrop of his marvellous flesh. His eyes shine with a kind of otherworldly gleam, satisfied smile stretching on his lips.

Thor, bewitched, nuzzles at his neck. “Gorgeous,” he whispers, kissing the bruised skin.

“Mine.” Loki rumbles, purrs like a kitten sated, slipping a hand from Thor’s loosened hold to wrap around the Asgardian’s nape and bring their faces close. He bites on Thor’s lips, licks them open, hissing possessively. 

_“Mine!”_

**Author's Note:**

> After that, of course, Loki got pregnant because they spent the next week fucking and cuddling and kissing (ok they had to eat too so they hunted a little, getting to know each other, toppling each other in the snow and making love in it ofc ofc!!!) When Thor requested to go back to Asgard he spoke to Frigga first so it was easier for them to persuade Odin and when word came from Jotunheim that Laufey wanted Thor's head no one was surprised. Loki used his big watery eyes and got Laufey to relent and let him marry Thor and, after loooooong arduous meetings where they discussed (argued more likely) the treaty, the two realms brokered a lasting peace and Thor and Loki lived happily ever after fucking like bunnies and populating a whole realm of their own. The End!
> 
> Hope you liked this! I surely had too much fun drowning in this sea of feels! And I *do* love your beautiful comments and kudos! They warm my heart and feed the fire of my creativity ♥ 
> 
> Happy holidays and here's to the end of this sucky year!
> 
> Love, Kimchi ♥


End file.
